


A Tall Ghost

by AnnieVH



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 06:53:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9536750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieVH/pseuds/AnnieVH
Summary: Sherlock tells Mycroft a ghost story, of sorts.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I first posted this story back in 2012 and it was based on “The Adventure of the Tall Man”, which is not considered part of the official canon, as it was only supposedly sketched by Arthur Conan Doyle. However, the entire scene where Mycroft gets scared into confession reminded me so much of it that I've decided to rewrite it.  
> In case you'd like to see what this story used to look like, you can find it here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7756819/1/A-Tall-Ghost
> 
> BETA: MaddieBonanaFana

“Why?”

“It's... complicated.”

From behind his desk, Mycroft stared at the two of them, expecting a better answer than a Facebook relationship status. When neither Sherlock nor John volunteered it, though, he said, “Then you better start at the beginning.”

“The murder.”

“Precisely.”

Sherlock's eyes darted to John, but his friend simply shook his head, “You're on your own.” A little chuckle peppered his dismissive words, immediately catching Mycroft's attention. John cleared his throat to cover and looked away, adopting once again the stance of a soldier.

“This is partially your fault,” Sherlock said, though rather weakly.

“He's your brother,” John argued.

Mycroft said, “Sherlock...” pronouncing his name like the crack of a whip, and while Sherlock usually detested that tone, tonight he knew it was better to play along. Lestrade had just dragged him into Mycroft's office, demanding, “You better have a _serious_ conversation with your lunatic brother!” sounding like a very frustrated teacher, expecting an indulgent parent to start taking responsibility for his son's behavior.

“Lestrade came by the flat four days ago,” he explained. “He was suspicious about a suicide case that fell in his hands.”

“You're referring to the Charles Goodlin case,” Mycroft said.

“Yes, he locked himself in his bedroom then put a gun to his mouth. The suicide note was posted on his Facebook page.”

“Handwriting is a dying art,” Mycroft sighed.

“Typed suicide notes may not be ideal for verifying authenticity, but they are becoming the norm. Besides, there was no sign of a struggle and the room was locked from the inside-”

“And yet, there you were,” Mycroft cut in, making it clear that he didn't think a crime scene was the best place for his brother to waste his time at.

“Lestrade had a hunch,” John said. “More often than not, those turn out to be right.”

“So,” Sherlock continued, “he took us to the crime scene and, once there, I was able to point out something strange. Goodlin lived by himself and his niece only visited about twice a month. Why would he lock himself in his bedroom if there was no one he wished to keep out?”

“Because whoever murdered him wanted to make it look like a suicide,” Mycroft answered, without batting an eye and sounding mildly peeved that his brother's story had taken so long to reach such an obvious conclusion. “Do speed up your explanation, brother mine. Leave the dramatization to the blogger.”

Sherlock looked at him like he didn't appreciate being rushed – or maybe he just didn't like how quickly Mycroft had leaped to the right conclusion.

“That wasn't much,” he said, sounding bitter, “but it was a start. Lestrade's prime suspect was Jack Morgan, who was Goodlin's business partner and with whom he'd had an altercation the week before the murder. There was motive, but I needed proof.”

“Given the most recent events, I take it you didn't find anything.”

“There was nothing to be found,” Sherlock said. “Lestrade was very thorough – well, for his standards, anyway. But even after I examined the scene, and the suspect's house-”

“Which I'm assuming was done with a warrant and under Lestrade's supervision.”

Sherlock ignored his brother's observation and proceeded, “There was still nothing. It was truly a _perfect_ crime.”

He spoke with a little light in his eye, the way he always did when faced with a particularly impossible problem, and Mycroft felt the urge to shoot him with the hidden gun embedded in his umbrella, just to see if Sherlock would eventually develop a negative reaction to the word _crime_ , like normal people did. Instead, he took a deep breath and said, “At which point, you should have excused yourself from the case and admitted defeat.”

John scoffed, “Yeah, but like that's going to happen.”

“Instead,” Mycroft continued, louder, “you decided that the situation called for less conventional methods.”

“They served their purpose.”

“A little too well.”

John made a sound as if he was about to burst into laughter, but stifled it down the moment Mycroft glared at him.

“Sorry,” he muttered, pressing a fist to his lips to keep a straight face.

“As it so happens,” Sherlock explained, “I found out, while in Morgan's house, that he is an extremely superstitious man. So I thought I could play with his mind and get him to admit to the murder by-”

“By pretending to be a dead man walking,” Mycroft interrupted, displeased.

“Yes.”

“The dead man Morgan had supposedly killed not a week before.”

“Yes.”

“What, _exactly_ , were you aiming for, brother dear, other than wearing silly costumes?”

“The costume is very silly,” John agreed, more teasingly than anything, and Sherlock poked him in the ribs to keep him quiet.

“A guilt trick, was what I was thinking. The fear for his eternal soul.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Absurd, of course, but it was clear that Morgan wholeheartedly believed this nonsense, and it worked to my advantage. The victim was a white male of my exact height and weight. I didn't have time to study his voice and traits, but I didn't have to play a convincing Charles Goodlin. I only had to play a convincing ghost.”

“A walking decomposing corpse, covered in a white sheet and chains,” Mycroft said, gesturing at his brother's attire.

Sherlock spread his arms and looked at himself, the bloodied sheet hanging from his arms like ghostly wings and the chains rattling as he moved.

“I grant it that I could have done better,” he admitted. “But time was of the essence and this worked just fine.”

“So you snuck into Morgan's house dressed as an undead from a low budget horror film, moaning words of hellfire, threatening to drag him down to Hades with you if he didn't confess his crime.”

Sherlock was shaking his head, considering it. John was pressing his lips together and trying to think of things that were not funny at all.

“That is a simplification of my work, but... yes.”

“And it worked.”

“Rather well.”

“Indeed. And you didn't stop then because...?”

“Because admitting it to me, and under duress, meant nothing, legally. As soon as I revealed myself, he'd have asked for a lawyer and denied the entire thing. If I got the police to hear his confession, the better the chances for Lestrade to put him away. Therefore, as I stalled, I sent John a signal and he called up Lestrade and his men.”

“Which would make perfect sense,” Mycroft nodded, not at all impressed by his brother's act, “except that, once the Scotland Yard arrived at the scene and heard the suspect screaming...” Mycroft flipped a file open and read the words that had been written into the report in Donovan's shaky handwriting. “ _I killed him, I killed him, please, god, don't let him take me, please, oh, please, I killed him_ -”

“Yes.”

“Providing the police with enough evidence to put him away for life, you should have stopped.”

“I should have, yes.”

“However, you did not.”

“No.”

When Sherlock didn't provide an explanation, Mycroft pressed, “Because...”

“Because, had I revealed myself, it would have looked like I was using coercive methods to extract a confession-”

“It _was_ using coercive methods to extract a confession, Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped.

“ _Technically_ , all I was doing was playing a practical prank, at that point. But if it looked like I was collaborating with the police, his lawyers would've claimed exactly that, and he would've walked.”

“And what was your plan, then?”

“To wait for Lestrade to take the man away and get out of the house quietly. Perfectly sound, to me.”

“Yes. That didn't happen, though.”

Sherlock raised a hand in protest, then turned it into a sign for his brother to hold it for a minute as he looked at the floor and tried very hard to keep a straight face. At that point, Mycroft was seriously considering hurting his little brother. It'd grant him an earfulfrom mummy, but it'd be incredibly satisfying.

“To be fair,” Sherlock finally said, “it wasn't my fault that Anderson spotted me as I was trying to leave and... you know...”

“Slightly panicked,” John added, finally dissolving into giggles. Sherlock would have joined him, if his brother weren't glaring at him so intently at the moment.

“Of course,” Sherlock continued, “the moment he started screaming, everybody else followed his reaction. The next thing I knew, nine police officers were running around, trying to find an exit, screaming in terror and desperation.”

Mycroft seemed to be fuming with anger.

“Lestrade was clever enough to know better, though,” Sherlock tried.

“Indeed. However, in the chaos that ensued...”

“He was... unfortunately handcuffed to the suspect.”

“ _And_...?”

“He might have been... dragged around a bit.”

“And at that point, you didn't stop because...?”

“It just seemed pointless, I mean... they _were_ leaving the house and taking the suspect with them.”

John stifled his giggles enough to add, “Technically, the suspect was taking Lestrade, but that's just...”

Mycroft aimed his angry eyes at John, “And you didn't try to stop him why, exactly?”

“I was unable to move.”

“Why?”

“Because he was laughing so hard,” Sherlock explained, since John had finally burst into laughter and was in no condition to speak anymore.

“And so,” Mycroft said, rising up from his seat, “at that point, you just decided that the best course of action was to-”

“To chase them three blocks down in my ghost costume, threatening to take them all to hell with me, until I finally got bored.”

“Which leads us back to my initial question: _why_?”

Sherlock looked at John, who'd fallen over the nearest chair, laughing, and then at his furious brother and he knew he'd get in trouble for it, but he still couldn't repress a smile as he answered the truth, “Honestly, at that point, everything was just too funny.”

 

 


End file.
